


Free Bird

by rubbished



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, One Shot, Other, Slight Nihilism, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9220040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubbished/pseuds/rubbished
Summary: The beating of his soul is loud in its muted chant in his skull, throbbing, nearly pleading to one that refused to take no heed. Why try? What good would it bring? What difference would it make to anyone nor anything? The skeleton knew any action he made harped no consequences, so why live as if they did?It is a question Sans has asked himself for the longest of times now.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EnemiesWithBenefits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnemiesWithBenefits/gifts).



A glint of silver glitters like a jewel in starlight, its luster dulled with age and use, and yet appreciated in the eye of the beholder. It's grasped firmly within the trembling vice of a skeleton's hand, and Sans' reflection wavers within the face of the flask and it is tipped backwards. A burning, boiling brew goes down the hatch-- one out of many, and the hooded monster is sighing aloud with content as a sleeve comes up to swipe at a stray bead of liquor at the corner of his mouth. 

The room of the MTT resort is a quite a scene, lavish and lush with pink and pillowed accents. Every surface holds its own glittery varnish, vinyl and leather adornments. The massive television against the wall blares with light and color, a program courteously of the celebrity robot himself. He is introducing a new recipe perfect for the holiday season. Although Sans didn't seem to be the least bit interested in party favors. On the foot of the bed he perches, trusty flask hanging loosely in his hand. His skull is downcast, gaze trained hard on the light pink plush carpet, almost the shade of his ratty bathroom slippers. 

Another swing goes down the chamber, and his head is swimming. His bones feel lighter, and yet the oblong curve of his smiling mouth is curled downwards. Pensive, not quite reaching the hazy firefly orbs of his eye sockets.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen! Now it’s time to add on the finishing touches!” Mettaton’s booming bravado blares on the television screen, a dazzling, million dollar smile as he brandishes a bedazzled mixing bowl. The crowd oohs and aahs as the plated diva begins to dump a copious amount of glitter (to which if Sans had been paying attention would remark how there was no way that could be edible) into the batter. Mettaton relishes in the coos of his beloved audience, and just for the hell of it does he throw some holiday garland into the bowl, that then sends the fans into a chorus of applause, then followed quickly behind with a MTT-brand commercial short. It’s then that a bony phalange meets the button on the TV remote, and the screen blips to black. 

There's something of a sigh that rattles through the monster's rib cage, and with a soft grunt Sans is rising from his spot, that all but little movement scattering a collection of empty glass bottles this way and that. Sans doesn't seem to notice them all that much as he crosses the hotel bedroom and out the two French doors leading to the spacious balcony. He's on one of the more higher floors of the resort, the view from over the balcony stunning. 

Nighttime has fallen over the world below ground, candles snuffed out and monsters carefully tucked into the comforts of their bed. The silhouettes of the little homes, the lab, and the castle all point to the sky like little cut out shapes made out of construction paper juxtaposed under a twinkling sky of artificial stars. Down below one can see Bratty and Catty in the gutters of the alleyway, laughing loudly over the some fumbling misfortune of Burgerpants had done, or the stumbling figures of monsters having come from the restaurant downstairs, clinging to one another, basking in the afterglow of the effects of alcohol and the company of one another. Sans watches it all with a passive expression, before taking yet another long pull of his drink. 

The softest of exhales, and he gazes up at the sky, hands resting on the bannister of the balcony. 

He waits, thinking.

His legs tremble, movements slow as he moves. Flask long forgotten, empty as it is tossed away onto the ground, before Sans finds himself scaling the bannister. His hand reaches out to grab hold of the pillar, a scuffle of slippers as he ascends. Sans' eye sockets are as hollow as deep, starving caverns jaw set as he stands tall, cheekbones are flushed cerulean from both the biting cold of the night and the liquor that warms his bones. The height at which he teeters is one to never sniff at, and yet the skeleton seems calm, unnerved by the soul-shattering drop below. 

The skeleton looks back down once again, marveling over how the stragglers of the night below mill and run like tiny ants in a farm, ambling about purposelessly, carelessly, their chatter catching and dissipating in the frigid winter air. Sans can’t deny the way his hands begin to sweat, dew drops beading along his brow bone. His grip tightening fractionally on the pillar. A soul thrums wildly like a drum’s song in his ribcage and yet, he doesn’t seem the least bit deterred. 

The beating of his soul is loud in its muted chant in his skull, throbbing, nearly pleading to one that refused to take no heed. Why try? What good would it bring? What difference would it make to anyone nor anything? The skeleton knew any action he made harped no consequences, so why live as if they did? 

It is a question Sans has asked himself for the longest of times now.

The blue hoodie around his shoulders rustles gently in the wind, eye lights growing to the size of bright silver dollars as he peers down below. Time and the world seems to freeze in that one moment, as if having been submerged in water, his movements slow and warped as he gently hangs on the edge. And then, his eye sockets are closing, a look of tranquility crossing his features. All of the tension in his body seems to melt away in that one moment, and his grip on the pillar holds for only a second, before he’s releasing. 

A tentative step forward, arms aloft as if ready to take flight. And with that, does he let the world go—

**Author's Note:**

> After what seems like an eternity I finally manage to write up something I'm pretty content with. This was just a small drabble I had a strike of inspiration for after watching my favorite movie "Forrest Gump" and the scene with Jenny standing on the ledge. Gotta love those random spurs of inspiration. I hope you enjoyed! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and thanks a million for reading!


End file.
